


Maybe Not As His Partner

by Edie_Rone



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, MSR, and scully said maybe not as his partner, but I thought there was another word that would work even better, confidential license is a real thing btw, enough angst goddammit let them live, established MSR, proposal, remember when skinner said they won't let you see him, she meant as his doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 23:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20366839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edie_Rone/pseuds/Edie_Rone
Summary: “Coffee, then? There’s a place at the end of the block there.”“We could get married. County clerk’s office is in the same building.”“Oh, OK, let’s get right on that,” she says mildly.





	Maybe Not As His Partner

Scully lies facedown on the bed in the golden afternoon, sheet pulled up to her waist, head pillowed on her arms as Mulder lightly traces inscrutable patterns on the bare skin of her back. He’s sitting in his boxer shorts, propped against the headboard, allegedly reading the file on their next case — they leave for Albany later tonight — but with a sleepy inattention that really isn’t going to give him much insight.

Scully’s eyes are closed, her face a softer, sweeter, sated version of her usual businesslike mien. She hums with pleasure as Mulder’s fingertips dance lightly over her, almost dozing, more content than she ever remembers being.

“Scully?” he says softly.

“Hmm?”

“Will you marry me?”

Her sudden, unaffected laugh is muffled in the crook of her arm.

“Sure,” she says easily, a smile in her voice. She’s trying to work out a joke about picking out china patterns together after all when she realizes that he didn’t laugh with her.

There’s just silence, and Mulder’s hand stops its wandering to rest along her spine. She hears him breathing, feels his gaze on her.

“I’m serious.”

She shifts, turning her head and looking up at him at last. She expects to catch that kidding-not-kidding look on his face, the one he uses when he’s trying to tell her something for real but covers it, daring her to fall for it. She’s become an expert on that look in their almost seven years working together, and her responses are deeply conditioned to it, so much so that she’s already prepared to go along with the gag and let him deflect whatever it is he’s really feeling. 

But she’s never seen his eyes more clear, his face calmer or more open. He’s sober, _she’s_ sober, no one is in mortal peril at the moment, she’s reasonably sure none of this is an hallucination (dreamlike though these rare stolen hours have been) — her heart thumps twice, hard, making her feel strange and fluttery. He actually _is _serious.

Her smile fades, replaced by a look of affection tinged with sadness. “So am I,” she realizes as she says it. “But you know we can’t.”

“I _don’t_ know that, either,” he insists, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. “We could.”

She shakes her head, brow furrowing, as she props herself up on one elbow. “We can’t. Not if we want to remain partnered. This —” she gestures back and forth between them — “is under the radar so far, perhaps indefinitely, plus although it’s technically against the rules, the rules are about protecting subordinates and direct reports, not policing what consenting adults do in their free time. Besides, it’s easily enough ignored if you have an AD willing to look the other way, or the fortitude to deny it. But _marriage_ —”

“We could keep it quiet — it’s not like we’d announce it in the Sunday _Post_ —”

“Mulder. A marriage license is a matter of public record. We’d be reassigned immediately, and permanently. And probably sanctioned for the cover-up, if not fired outright.”

He sighs, unhappily acknowledging her point. He takes her hand, rubbing his thumb over her left ring finger; they both watch, lost in thought for a time. Finally their eyes meet again and he says, “But you would, though? If we could?”

She nods solemnly. He smiles then; leaning down to kiss her, he murmurs “OK then.”

They barely make the flight to Albany.

\------------------------

That odd word he’d introduced between the two of them some weeks earlier — “marriage.” Somehow, of all the fantastic things they’ve seen and done together, that word is the strangest, the X-est of files. She’ll go days without thinking of it, then spend an entire weekend goofily pondering the fact that technically they were engaged, she was his fiancee — he’d asked, she’d said yes. Never mind that the deed could never be done — the words had been spoken and it was a fact between them. An incredibly loaded and bizarre fact, but a fact nonetheless.

She knew he was thinking of it, too — she’d be absorbed in work, deep in concentration, and when she looked up, he’d be staring at her, mouth just slightly open, a dreamy look in his eyes. Maybe he was just thinking about what they’d done the night (or morning) before, or what he wanted to do next — he did tend to stare at her at those times, too … but she had a sense, she could tell there was a different quality to his dreaminess when he was thinking of that conversation.

Nothing had changed, and yet.

He was strangely more possessive during sex sometimes — he said “mine” when he tackled her and plundered her lips, there was a feral look he didn’t hide anymore when he told her things he wanted, sometimes things she’d not cared for with other men but found impossibly exciting with him. She found herself making demands she’d been too shy to voice before, as well — the foundation seemed more solid, somehow. Her doubt of him had all but vanished.

He was more sanguine when other men (and that gorgeous, leggy Brigitte-Nielsen-type ASAC from the Nevada office) showed interest in her — jealous, to be sure, but without the petty dickishness he usually couldn’t help displaying. It was as if he knew she was his, no need to worry.

Come to think of it, she felt the same way. It suddenly didn’t bother her when he did his mildly-flirtatious thing with …well, basically every woman he met. He’d declared himself to her — he wanted to marry her. He wasn’t interested in anyone else. Unbelievable.

It was nice — it was good. It was weird. But good. And as time passed, she let that sink down into her bones a little, let it rest and mellow, there to stay — likely forever.

—————

**San Francisco, California  
** **Two months later**

**—————**

“Well, I’m done, but they’re backed up this morning — Judge Morimoto’s clerk says it’ll be at least an hour till they’re ready for your testimony,” Mulder said, dropping onto the bench next to her in the tree-lined promenade hugging the court building.

Scully looks up from the file she’d been scribbling in the margins of, unsurprised. “I figured. OK, so — we’ve got an hour to kill. Not quite enough time to get back to the hotel …”

He bites back a grin at the wicked little glimmer in her eye. “Guess not. Later, though, for sure. We’re not due up in Olema till 6:00 — plenty of time.”

“Mmm,” she murmurs, returning her attention to the file. “Coffee, then? There’s a place at the end of the block there.”

“We could get married. County clerk’s office is in the same building.”

“Oh, OK, let’s get right on that,” she says mildly, underlining something and putting a star by it.

“I’m serious, Scully — I stopped by to make an appointment. They can take us at 10:45.”

She looks up at last, sees the light dancing in his eyes, and closes her file with mild annoyance masking the beginnings of something trembly she doesn’t care to examine right now. “What are you talking about? We discussed this, Mulder — there’s no way.”

He leans back on the bench, elbows hooked over the backrest, self-satisfaction evident in every part of his pose. “What do you know about California history, Scully?”

“Just what every San Diego seventh-grader knows,” she replies, shrugging. “Settlement by missionaries in the seventeen- and eighteen-hundreds, Gold Rush 1848-49, statehood 1850 …” she trails off, waving vaguely.

“Well. I did the research, Scully, and the geographic expanse and frontier ethos of the Golden State combined to foster some very unusual things — from the Bear Flag Revolt to the salvation of the French wine industry —” he stops, seeing her look of confusion, insisting, “it’s true, there was an aphid blight in France and the only thing that saved the vines was the rootstock that had been brought to the New World, which turned out to be resistant to phylloxera and was therefore brought _back_ to France for hybridization with the —”

“The point, please, Mulder.”

“ANYway, so these far-flung settlements didn’t have a lot of preachers or JPs around, and people being people, just went ahead and cohabitated and had families without benefit of clergy, which just could not be condoned, so the wise men of the cloth came up with a thing called a confidential license, in which two parties could be secretly married, off the record, so as to benefit from being right with both the law and the lord, and no one’s friends or neighbors would be the wiser as to when, exactly, the blessed union had _tech_nically occurred. Thus in their wisdom, they created a loophole in marriage and family law: the confidential license. Which still exists to this day, only in California —” he gestures expansively in the bright-blue 68-degree day — “and couples married by provision of same do so with no public record whatsoever. It takes a judge’s order to request the sealed record, and only for certain very specific reasons — mostly relating to heirship or intent to defraud — and only in the county in which the union was legalized.”

Thus delivered, Mulder sat and looked at her with the delight of the cleverest boy in class. As ever, she needed to remove that look from his face, stat.

“Right. So we just walk in to the Registrar, and get married.” She shakes her head with a slight eyeroll. “There’s more to it than that, Mulder.”

“Like what?” It was the way he looked when he knew she’d walked into one of his traps. She was instantly wary, and frankly, starting to get nervous.

“Don’t we need … witnesses?”

He shakes his head no, smiling.

“Blood tests?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Birth certificates?”

Patting his own briefcase, he says “Already pulled ‘em.”

“Isn’t there a — a waiting period?” She sounds a tiny bit desperate to her own ears, which makes her even more nervous.

“Nope. We really can just do this, Scully — and here we are in a place where we won’t attract any undue attention, we’ve actually been sent here for a completely jake Bureau reason, not even some case we pushed to take … it’s perfect!”

Suddenly it’s as if her mouth is filled with cotton; she can’t speak, just twists her hands nervously in her lap, looking anywhere but at him. The silence stretches out for an interminable minute.

“Unless …” Mulder mutters, drawing himself together, almost cringing. “Ohhh, shit, you don’t actually wanna do it — you were just humoring me —”

“Mulder—”

“Oh my god, I’m an idiot,” he castigates himself. “Of course you wouldn’t, I’m so stupid —”

“Mulder, for God’s sake, you say you wanna marry me, could you shut up for five damn seconds?” she interrupts sharply.

His jaw snaps shut. He sits facing her; she turns to stare straight forward, willing her brain to calm down and say what she means. She takes a deep breath, lets it out. Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips, a nervous gesture he’s intimately familiar with.

At last she says with just the slightest quaver, “I — Mulder, for me — it’s always been a yes. Even in our darkest times, even when we were far away from each other in every possible sense — if you’d asked me — asked me seriously, I mean — at any point in our partnership — our relationship — I’d’ve said yes.”

Now, staring at her profile like it’s the answer to life, the universe, and everything, it’s Mulder who almost can’t get words out.

“You — really?” he croaks.

She nods, still resolutely avoiding his gaze. Another deep breath, then she continues, “But I think — I thought until this very second that you were … just blue-skying, or — or kidding, at least on some level. I thought this was — you trying to see if I’d call your bluff.”

She senses, rather than sees, the way he slumps beside her as if absorbing a body blow. She doesn’t dare look at him. He runs his hands through his hair, swallows audibly, and nods.

“Scully. That is _my. fault._ I have been — I’ve been an immature jackass enough at times that — I can — I can see where you might have … gotten that impression. And I am so. sorry.”

Now she turns to face him, and the earnestness, the honesty of the moment he first asked her is back. Her breath catches; again she can’t speak, just nods understanding.

He takes both of her hands in his, his gaze level and serious. “Nothing about this is kidding, for me. It never was. I _belong_ to you. I love you and I want to be your husband. I want you to be my wife, even if we can never tell another person. I just —” He breaks off, seeing the tears welling in her eyes; she bites her lip, hard, trying to keep them from falling. He slides off the bench to kneel beside her; looking up, he asks again: “Scully, will you marry me?”

Her lips form the word “yes,” though she’s still not able to make any sound. She nods for emphasis, which causes a single tear to escape; she has to take one hand back from him to dash it away. _Can’t be seen crying on a park bench in San Francisco_, she thinks crazily.

His smile, she could swear — it would blind her if she weren’t doing the same thing right back. They stay there, beaming at each other, until the whole thing becomes ridiculous and they both burst into laughter. She rises, dragging him with her, and falls against him, whooping indiscreetly into his chest, trying to muffle the sounds even as he’s doing the same with her hair as a shield.

When they’re finally able to keep it together, he says softly, right next to her ear, “So — should we go, then? We gonna do this?”

A tremor of excitement, of strange fluttery anticipation, runs through her and she has to tell herself _this is real, holy shit this is really happening_, and she says just as softly, “Yes. Let’s go.”

————————

They ascend the grand staircase into City Hall, then follow the signs to the marriage license office, Mulder’s hand resting on the small of her back, Scully thinking of the expression on Winona Ryder’s face when she’s marrying Jerry Lee Lewis in _Great Balls of Fire,_ and almost falling into another cackling fit. The clerk there takes their documentation and the fee, gives them the proper forms, and with minimal fuss, sends them along to the chambers of the JP with whom Mulder had made their appointment.

From behind a large wooden desk on a raised platform, Judge McKellar, who puts Scully in mind of Gene Wilder's Willy Wonka, takes his time examining everything.

“Confidential license,” he says finally, looking with interest from Scully to Mulder and back again.

“Yes, sir,” she answers, trying and failing to swallow the smile that bubbles up from deep inside.

“No intent to defraud, no intent of coercion?” he looks at her faux-suspiciously, and she laughs.

“No, sir,” she answers. “We’re just very private people.”

The judge smiles. “World could use more of that. Now. Confidential license is intended to rectify the situation of partners already cohabitating. Do you swear that you are in fact already in a cohabitative living situation?”

This takes Scully by surprise — she didn’t know that was part of the deal. She can sense Mulder tense up next to her; he knows she won’t lie, even now.

But she thinks about all the late nights, early mornings, long afternoons in each other’s company; about the fact that they each have a duplicate set of all toiletries, meds, and of course clothing at both apartments; have keys to everything either of them owns; know where the other keeps the coffee filters, the extra rolls of toilet paper, the clean sheets; know each other’s DOB, blood type, main credit card numbers, SSNs, medical histories, badge numbers, radio station preferences, newspaper section reading order, and side of the bed, and answers honestly: “Yes.”

“Yes sir,” Mulder echoes happily, tension evaporating. They look at each other and giggle stupidly — they must look like two overgrown teenagers whose hormones have driven them to take extreme measures.

“OK then,” the judge says approvingly. “Let’s get you two married!”

He opens the book in front of him, then stops himself and says, “You didn’t write your own vows, didya?”

“Ahh —” Mulder looks at Scully for reassurance. She shakes her head, amused.

“No, sir, just the, uh, the standard ceremony is fine,” he finishes, and she can’t help laughing, hiding her face against his shoulder. Their fingers twine together, the most natural thing, as the judge returns to his place in the book. 

“We are gathered here to unite these two people in matrimony. If anyone present can show just and legal cause why they may not be thus joined, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”

The judge scans the empty room, eyes comically wide, then chuckles into his collar. Mulder squeezes Scully’s hand; she squeezes back.

“Fox William Mulder, will you have this woman as your lawful wedded wife, to live together in the estate of matrimony? Will you love her, honor her, and comfort her, keep her in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I will,” his deep, somber voice replies, and suddenly there’s nothing funny about this at all; her heart is in her throat, treacherous tears stinging her eyes again.

“Dana Katherine Scully, will you have this man as your lawful wedded husband, to live together in the estate of matrimony? Will you love him, honor him, and comfort him, keep him in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I —” it comes out rough, clogged with unshed tears. She clears her throat, tries again: “I will.”

The judge nods, then thinks of something else: “You have rings with you?”

“Oh — uh — no,” Mulder stammers. “Do we — is it not valid if we don’t?”

“Son —” the judge begins, looking like he’s about to make a joke, but Mulder’s stricken face stops him. “No, rings are just jewelry — this is a wedding, not a TV commercial. You’re fine.”

They sag against each other with relief. The judge shakes his head, smiling to himself, and picks up where he left off.

“Please join hands — oh, you’ve already got that part! — ah, please join hands and repeat after me. You first, Mr. Mulder. And look at her, not me — I’ve already got a wife, don’t need a husband too.”

Mulder nods, turning his body toward her.

“I, Fox, take you, Dana, to be my wedded wife,” Judge McKellar begins.

Scully almost can’t bear to look directly at him, but she realizes she has to. She’s shaking all over, clutching his hands to steady herself, and when she turns, tilting her head up to meet his gaze, she almost loses it entirely. Mulder has to blot his welling eyes with his sleeve before he repeats, “I, Mulder, take you, Scully, to be my wedded wife…”

“You can use first names at this point,” the judge interjects. Mulder shakes his head without looking away from her, and she gives a watery laugh; the judge just shrugs and continues.

“To have and to hold from this day forward…”

Suddenly she can’t stop the hitch in her breath any more than she can stop the silent tears sliding down her face; she has to let go of his hand with one of hers to swipe at them so she doesn’t miss a second of this unimaginable thing, the sight and sound of Mulder repeating these time-worn vows. 

“…To have and to hold from this day forward…”

“…For better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health…”

“…To love, honor, and cherish, till death do us part.”

He crushes her to him as he finishes the last sentence, and they hold each other like drowning people until she feels able to stand on her own. She disentangles just enough to be able to see him, and Judge McKellar takes his cue, rumbling:

“I, Scully, take you, Mulder, to be my wedded husband …”

“I, Scully, take you, Mulder, to be my …” she says shakily, almost inaudibly, “to be my wedded husband…”

He reaches up to touch her cheek, and she tilts her head into the caress. Strengthened, she goes on:

“…To have and to hold from this day forward…”

“…For better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health…”

“…To love, honor, and cherish, till death do us part.”

Mulder leans down, resting his forehead on hers, and they close their eyes, breathing together, while the judge concludes:

“Mulder and Scully having consented together in wedlock, witnessed here in these chambers, then by the authority vested in me by the State of California, I pronounce them united in marriage. You may k—oh, you’ve already gotten to that part …”

Scully’s laugh is subsumed into the kiss, Mulder taking her fully into his arms as she melts completely into him. She squeezes him around the waist; one of his hands cradles the back of her head while the other holds her up, his lips on hers, her tongue slipping inside his mouth as he moans, almost sub-aurally, sending a rush of warmth through her body. It’s only Judge McKellar’s pointed throat-clearing that brings them back to the present.

Laughing breathlessly, they disengage just enough for propriety — Scully blushing, not daring to look down at the state of Mulder’s trousers.

“Is that it?” Mulder asks, trying to discreetly adjust himself.

“That’s it,” Judge McKellar confirms, clapping his book shut and holding up the certificate for their signatures. They step to the desk and sign, Scully first, then Mulder, then the judge. “You have the paper that tells how to order an official copy, and this one will be sealed in court records until and unless there is a judge’s order to unseal it.” He smiles, shaking his head a little. “Congratulations!”

They stumble over each other saying their thanks, then make their way outside, encountering a little group of people obviously comprising the next wedding on the judge’s schedule — a young man and woman surrounded by eight or ten friends and family members, all dressed up and giddy; the bride carries a nosegay of bright flowers in the hand not held by the groom. Scully and Mulder both smile at them, and get radiant smiles in return.

“Good luck!” the two couples call out as they edge past each other. Scully glances over her shoulder to watch the door shut behind the last of the group go inside, feeling a brief wistfulness — they can’t even tell her mother, much less make a party of it.

But as Mulder’s arm slides around her waist and she tilts her head to look up at him, the moment passes, replaced by the wonder and the weight of her love for him, anchored in the depth and the breadth and the absolute certainty now of what they are to each other in the chaos and strangeness of the world they’ve seen and the work they do. She’s made her choice — made it long ago — and it feels as right as it does inevitable: It’s the two of them against the world.


End file.
